


Overwatch - Noir

by ZellieAlmasy



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Detective Noir, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, M/M, P.I. AU, Private Investigator, So fucking hammy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 18:13:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11258244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZellieAlmasy/pseuds/ZellieAlmasy
Summary: P.I. Jesse McCree tries to singlehandedly take down the Shimada Yakuza. I hate this so fucking much, who lets me write these things. (Don't worry, it will get smutty eventually)





	Overwatch - Noir

**Author's Note:**

> Let me tell you write now, whatever it is you gotta say......... I know. I H A T E 1st person and I hate use of present tense (except for RP). But god dammit if I'm doing this, then _I am doing it._ It's very, very different from my usual style, cause I wanted to tell it how I think McCree would tell it. Anyway. Get on with the reading and cry about it with me.

It’s a slow night. Hell, who am I kidding? Every night's been slow since I opened this damn agency. The only clients I seem to get are ones with lost puppies or a spouse that's having an affair.

That ain't why I opened Peacekeeper Investigations. I wanted to do some good in the world. Bring justice to them who need it, set the wrongs right… That sort of thing. But there I sit, night after night, just waiting for the right case that'll let all criminals know that Jesse McCree, P.I., ain't one to be trifled with. 

Finally, tonight’s the night my prayers are answered. There’s a light knock on my door. Expecting another ol’ granny with a cat up a tree, I call out for my latest client to come in. And then she walks through my door - hair bright as gold with big, blue doe eyes. As she steps through the cigar smoke lingering throughout my office, she resembles an angel floating through the clouds. Yet there’s a solemn presence hanging ‘round her. I can’t help but wonder what could make a pretty lil’ angel so sad, but I imagine I’m about to find out. 

“I don't know who else I could turn to,” she says mournfully as she gracefully takes a seat. There's a hint of a German accent in her voice. After the War, it's an accent I'll never forget. “My fiancé was nearly killed. I was told you could bring justice to his would-be assassin.” 

Something smells funny about this from the get-go. Even though I'd been hankerin’ for a real case, I still have to wonder why the police ain't done nothing to investigate a murder attempt. Might be they did, but came up with zilch. Well, I'm always game to show up the local PD. That still leaves the question of who recommended my services. I doubt them cat ladies would think to recommend me for a case like this. 

But I ain't looking a gift horse in the mouth, and I sure as hell ain't one to back down from a challenge. I pull the cigar from my mouth and snuff it out in an old, dirty ashtray as I speak to my new client, “Well now, Miss…” 

“Doctor,” she firmly corrects me and holds out her hand. “Doctor Angela Ziegler.” 

I shake her hand, surprised by how strong her grip is for her slender build. 

“All right, Dr. Ziegler,” I continue, “I'll take on your case. Mind if I pay your fiancé a visit?” 

She hesitates. “I don't see what good that will do, detective. He is unconscious and unable to speak.” 

“Not always questions ya need from someone,” I reply and already begin to stand. My legs ache from all this sitting. I'm glad for a chance to finally do some field work. “It’ll be a good start to take a look at his injuries. Y’know, get a feel for what happened.” 

“What happened is he was nearly murdered,” she huffs and quickly stands. “But very well, if you believe that will aid in the investigation…” 

I grab my tattered old trench coat and wide-brimmed hat and follow the young doctor out the door. She leads me to a nearby hospital and takes me up to the victim’s room. The way she walks right on through without being stopped or questioned, I can easily guess this is where she works. 

As I approach the victim's bed, I can clearly tell this guy's seen much better days. The parts of him that ain't covered in bandages are purple with bruises. But that's not what stands out the most - the guy’s hair is green. Bright as a traffic light. 

“Dr. Ziegler,” I lift my hat briefly to run a hand over my hair, “you seem like a sensible woman. Gotta be smart as a whip to be a doctor. What makes you wanna marry a grown man with hair that color?” 

“I do not see how his hair is relevant to the investigation, detective,” she casually replies, but I can see she's holding back her temper, trying to remain professional. 

She's right, though. I need to know who did this to him. I start by taking a glance at his chart. All this medical mumbo jumbo don't mean much to me, but one thing nearly pops right off the page - his name. 

“Shimada?” I scowl at Dr. Ziegler and set down his chart maybe a bit more roughly than I should have. “I knew this case didn't smell right. If you think I give a damn about whether some Yakuza scum lives…” 

“Genji is not Yakuza!” she sternly interrupts. “But I believe that is why he was nearly killed.” Dr. Ziegler’s eyes glance off to the side, looking guilty as all hell. “He turned his back on his family, so I'm quite certain it was Yakuza who tried to kill him, detective. The police were too afraid of the Shimadas to take his case.” She hesitates at that. “I omitted his name for fear you would be as well.” 

“I ain't afraid o’ no Shimadas,” I reply. 

This wouldn't be the first time I took ‘em on, either. Before the military turned me straight, the Shimadas were my competition. Now, my old gang wasn't near as big and terrifying as a Yakuza clan as old as the Shimadas, but we both dealt in weapons trafficking. I've had some good business yanked right outta my hands by them boys, especially that eldest son - Hanzo Shimada. He'd been groomed to take over the whole Shimada empire once his daddy passed, and that boy sure as hell knew his business. Never dealt with this Genji, but I've heard he's Hanzo's own younger brother. 

After I served my time in the War, I took a trip to Hanamura to personally bring an end to the Shimadas’ reign. Japan was still recovering after the bombs fell. They were vulnerable, so I thought I'd take my shot. But I guess it just wasn't in the cards for me. My cover was blown in a run-down noodle shop just outside the gates of Shimada’s manor. There was a hold-up, and I couldn't just idly stand by and watch the little old shopkeeper get robbed like that. Just when I almost had Shimada in my grasp… For all I know, the robber very well could have been Yakuza, staging the crime just to draw me out. I guess I never will know for sure. 

But I never forgot about them good fellas. All these years, I've been sitting and waiting for another chance to take em down. And here it is, conveniently falling in my lap. Maybe a little too convenient… 

Even knowing it might be a set-up, I still can't resist taking that bait. I may be one lone P.I. against an entire Yakuza clan, but if I go down, it’ll be in a blaze of glory. 

“So, ain't no mystery who tried killin’ him. Just a matter of gatherin’ evidence for a conviction,” I clarify, and she replies with a nod. “I guess the best place to start is the scene of the crime.” 

She gives me the name and address of a popular bar downtown, but from here on out, I'm working this case alone. It'll be safer for her to keep her distance, and besides, she'd rather stay and look after her fiancé. 

By now, it's after hours, but I've got nothing better to do for the night. I'd probably just wind up at the bottom of a bottle, like always. So I clock the overtime and head on out to investigate this bar that Genji is known to visit. 

It's a fairly modern bar - the kind with a jazz band blaring music so loudly, you can barely hear yourself think. Not my taste, but I ain't here for a drink. It's crowded, even for a Tuesday night. Whoever attacked Genji here sure had some stones. 

I ask around, trying to find a witness. Everyone claims to know nothing. You'd figure a man with green hair would stand out - particularly one in the process of being murdered. The bartender is here every night, but he still claims he don't know a damn thing. But I can see it in their eyes - these people are holding out on me, either through fear, or maybe they've been paid off. I shouldn't expect any less from Yakuza thugs. 

But I did go into this knowing it wouldn't be easy. I step out into the alley for a smoke, looking to clear my head away from that blaring music. As my cigar steadily burns away, the back door swings open and a young kid joins me in the alley. 

I say kid, but he's maybe around his mid-20s. Still pretty young, far as I'm concerned. His dark hair is pulled back into a puffy bun, with a fedora sitting on top of his head. I recognize him as a member of the band - trumpet player. Kid’s got some talent. 

At first, I pay him no mind. I figure he's out here for a peaceful smoke, same as me. But then I notice he's got no cigarette in his hand. He hooks his thumbs in his pockets and approaches, looking all kinds of nervous. 

“Sorry, boy,” I speak up, flicking the butt of my cigar onto the gravel. “Was my last one.” 

Turns out the kid ain't out here for a smoke, though. “Hey, you that detective that's been asking questions?” 

“Depends. Who wants to know?” 

“Lúcio Correia dos Santos,” he replies. “Been playin’ with my band here almost every night these past couple weeks, and uh… Maybe I've seen some stuff.” 

“That makes just you, kid,” I comment with a sigh, but I am relieved at least one person decided to come forward. “The Yakuza forgot to pay off the entertainment, I take it?” 

“Yakuza?!” his eyes grow wide with surprise, and maybe a little fear. “That's who those guys were?” 

“More ‘n likely. Fella with the green hair wanted out. I'm guessin’ his kin were none too happy ‘bout that.” 

Lúcio hesitates a moment before speaking up again. “Well, I don't know much, but I can tell you what I saw.” 

“Before you do, you should know the risk of just talkin’ to me.” Eager as I am to take down the Shimada clan, I can't let an innocent kid put his life on the line. 

“I know it's dangerous,” he confidently answers. “The Yakuza don't play around, but someone's gotta stand up to ‘em. I know this world can be a better place, and I'm willing to do what it takes to get us there.” 

I feel a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. Part of me wishes I had his optimism. “All right. I'm listenin’.” 

“The one with the green hair - he comes here a lot. But that night, he was sitting with an older man I've never seen before.” 

“Tell me ‘bout him. What's he look like?” 

“He was Asian, just like the other guy. Had a real serious look on his face the whole time. The weird thing is, he wore those real old-fashioned Japanese robes, you know? He had a goatee, and his hair pulled back in a little ponytail. All black, except for some gray by the ears. And the crazy thing? He had this giant tattoo running all down his arm. At least, the parts of his arm I could see.” 

“That tattoo look like a dragon?” 

“Yeah! Like a big snake or something. Couldn't hear what they were talking about, but they started fighting. Green hair stormed off out back, and the older man followed. Next thing I knew, someone's running in the club shouting about a body in the alley, and older dude's nowhere to be found.” 

My eyebrows raise at the last part of his statement and I start to glance around the area. “So this is…” 

“Right where it happened, yeah.” Lúcio steps a few feet in front of me and taps the ground with his foot. “Dude was layin’ right here, bleeding out.” 

Even as I move closer to inspect the area for evidence, there's no sign whatsoever that an assault happened here just days ago. Them Yakuza boys clean up real good. 

“Sorry I can't help more.” 

“Son, you've been a bigger help than you know.” I reach out to give him a hearty clap on the shoulder. 

Because now, I know exactly who I'm looking for. Hanzo Shimada - that sick bastard damn near killed his own brother. His goons may have cleaned up the crime scene and silenced the witnesses, but no one's perfect. Yakuza or no, they're still just as human like any other man. There's a mistake somewhere - some bit of evidence I can use to bring down their empire once and for all, and I'm gonna find it. 

I'm coming for you, Shimada. 

*~*~*~*~*~* 

McCree was focused so intently on his computer screen, fingers vigorously clacking away at the keyboard, that he didn't even notice someone had quietly walked up behind him. The touch of a hand on his shoulder made him jump and frantically mash ALT + F4 on the computer. 

“What's this?” Hanzo gently spoke as he leaned in closer. He gently rubbed McCree's shoulder where his hand rested while carefully holding a cup of tea in the other. “Did that say ‘Shimada’?” 

“Nothing!” McCree quickly snapped. “It's porn. I was watchin’ porn.” 

Hanzo is positive he saw all text and no video, but he wasn't in the mood to press the issue. He simply gave a sigh and pressed a gentle kiss to McCree’s temple before pulling away. 

“Anata, come to bed. It's late.” As he started to walk to the bedroom, he paused to shoot a coy grin at the other man. “If you hurry, perhaps you can have a live show before my sleepytime tea begins to work.” 

The temptation was too much to resist. McCree gladly jumped from his chair and eagerly followed Hanzo to bed. His story could be continued later.


End file.
